Skip to main content

Full text of "The Gleaner"

See other formats




WeScuimA^ vS$£4f (^a&m^ 


-6ZT /? 


nMJa r 




2007-2008 r^W* 

^fadi/ (^a&4e 

cjpianda K&lwcn 

(^Ma/Uos l$f&wian/ 

d^BtepAen/ ^fximmeuu 

~3(atd ^uncipuita 

3&Utttiey/ ((§&4<zsi/ 

Jieaecca ^teffenino 

^fy(aua } / Q^a/ 

\&ft&nti n&(we%/: ^naganna J$&<ml& 

Sntide Qft&nt: l^Palge [ Meity 

\^nua% CMacd: ^MiiiUina §andeu 

(SfaCsd (l2&&e?is: Wz. ^3f\>aten/ QBcJ-iamm 

^Bp^<Ua£ mtLfifL t& me fmimiMsw/: 

SOz. 3Uinda Qmafaet fat c&otdinating tne 
Qfeanet Jfign §c£&&c HWtlng (Joampetitian 

<3kv. (Mamy, Slentfnget and 
x^yiaei Glinting Q^toap , fat tneh time and genewutu 

3d. ~min£ Qf. (Sfojc and 1 (§fax> Q^ndetu/, Q/ke--. fat tAeii* time and genetoiitij 


'the Sirens Song 

Like a mythicaB siren 
She Beckons Him in 

3-Be cannot stand stiCC 
Coming strangeBy on free wiBB 

'But he is not drawn 
By her hypnotic song 

Moving towards her 
She watches as he moves cCoser 

'The onBy man 
~Who couCcC ever understand 

SAnd Book into her eyes and see 
y^ho she wants to Be 

3-Be aCready knows the toCC 
Life has taken on her souC 

3-Be knows already some way somehow 
Standing Before Bier, he takes a gracefuB Bow 

She starts to cry 
It is as if he truBy cares, But why 

She has caBBed many to come upon her shore 
But soon they aCCcBose her Behind a door 

Can it Be fate has thrown a die 
~WitBi Bier nuniBer, shouBd she try 

Ir is it just going to end in despc 
yvBry Bother again to take a day 

But now he reaches out for her hand 
In a soft voice he speaks as he stands 

"\jou are a Broken souBBike me. 
Together as one our worries shaBB Be set free.' 

Now she hoBds onto his hand 
JAnd reBief comes Bike waves upon the sand 

Jor once in her Bife 
She knows no more strife 

SAs Bong as with him she Bives 
3-Ber heart to him she gives 

Shayanna Boonie 

* m 


Daylight becomes the doe. Leaps, bends 

and becomes night. The dae lights her quickfire 

tail, turns to mave prayer at the moon and- silvery/ 

mater spilled over all the dull stones spelled 

out in the mood. Six hilltops the does knows, 

six valleys and six car-crossed roads. The stillness 

of her stance shams none of the violent 

operations of her heart. Tat. Treeze. Tat. 

Dance. "Night takes her back into his vacant 

rooms. Then the lantern of her tail moves through 

the roomy moods and disappears as everything 

that ever tenderly prayed eventually does. 

Pbte taj KaikeujA Hu 

The siAn isjiASt a morning star, 

Prelude to something not too £ar. 

Perhaps a> kee o$ pain, 

GiAnny slates and never rain. 

The days and nights am fleeting miniAtes, 

That hold ias hack and set oiAr limits. 

ytihen the iM.intA.tes have all passed, 

Peace and joy uoill rule at last. 

^rom the mins o$ the old, 

The ne\AJ iAJi.CC rise iM-tk eyes o$ gold. 

And uohen they look east uolth golden eyes, 

All voill swde as they realize. 

That the sun a morning star. 

Vr Chris Tipping 

A rC-fl iloio jrom \\xe M\\±\bo\)e mAte? e\)erv\\Ui\k look kam \\xe W<?ta v>teiM<? douA o-\ du»l *\<aA 
rintb" swfowA^ bjou, lltr -nidi nolgnouiMc wakf hou4io[«? JrulenoiAiklo mAce mom vorinkl? i^our 

. \A -fake k&so jor air. Ijou swib, in spile o^- We \e,G$ Wma ver-j-ecl coi\M\om, We wounUin 
\i\o\k\>e ii:4 k> [L\me b\cck.U\k f iikfy prsenl e^f \aow view, no! <?nowik lo ruin We uiikl J^au^ wk<?K We 
liiklr 4o t-lcton ai/U We \>o\ rises, a([ Wose imoerj-ec\\om \e<x& \o verged memories oj- sW crowed 

PJwto (uj Slwyaiuia Bo 


A waking nightmare of sluggish blight, 

Left behind in long hours past. 

Fatigue is felt and pain I fight, 

A weary mind determined to last. 

An echoing pang like blinding light, 

A curse, my bane, retribution in sight. 

Sleep is calling, the expected remedy. 

Fate is cruel wanderings for me. 

Ghostiy spirits come out to chide, 

Mischievous imps take up the stride. 

Torturous devils! I cannot hide, 

Tired, beaten; my time I bide. 

Patience be mine, so peace can reign in. 

Divinity be kind, and cut my puppet strings. 

Let me know rest, the mind stop feigning. 

Sleep is calling, but my head is ringing. 

Scott Shaw 

; y 

Ivan Benediction 

Wandering solitary 

Through blessed wilderness bejewelled with 


I, transfixed, 

By slltey wklsp'rlnojs 

of sy Iva n spirit 

And keadw Incense 

of evergreen baln/t. 

A wend roues woodspell 

Enraptures w,y setA,ses: 

All tlw,e sutspeiA/ded, 

All cares, dissolve. . . . 

Solitary wand 'rings, 

yet never 


— l^r. Karen Schramm, 
;ow,ewhere on the A.T. 



tjdcicl ^t^ifidJaXicm/ 

£Rcbin& iihcw cm/i/ (ify&etlu /Www. 
&ha/6 ccwiefr Stcwn/ th& cot/Myitifofwifr 

tMMtt '■ a€wewiMhe>n<tfr tfacU \cM &€bc/v 

. r /*n£ei halite/ 


Ptato lu) Sluujaium Bwwie 

Starlit Nights 

Starlit nights, 

Far away from the bright lights, 

Of a city worn out by the cola, 

Of times ana things new ana old, 

Feeling that warm breeze, 

Ana how it breaks the winter s freeze, 

It doesn 't matter where you are, 

Be you near or far, 

On diamond sands, 

Or windswept lands, 

A grassy meadow, 

Or a place to avow, 

That your love rings true, 

Winter and summer through, 

Those stars always shine, 

And how they do so divine, 

A symbol of beauty and truth, 

Of strength and youth, 

They are our endeavour, 

The stars are forever. 

Larry Qharney 



ty S\wmi fyuud 


Middle Eastern Real Estate 

She pours grains of sand 

from her war tested boot. 

I wonder briefly how much sand 

has woven its way into yours. 

A two month stop at home doesn't make up for 

sixteen months spent over there. 

You haven't been home for our Christmas lights 

and hot cocoa drives in years. 

Training and war itself has stolen you away 

from our yuletide rituals year after year. 

Brittney Soban 



Vkofo ty Stephen Dowkoifeic 


The footsteps come and the footsteps go, 

Some I recognize and others I don't know, 

A pair comes forth that I know well, 

Come and be with me, I promise not to tell. 

I'll enter my plea. I want to be with you. 

I know it won't be easy but I know we can make it through. 

The footsteps pause to hear my plea, 

I know your answer even though I can't see. 

The footsteps come closer I can almost feel your touch, 

I sense your confusion and it makes me want you so much. 

I reach out to touch you knowing you're near, 

But you draw away your answer unclear. 

Your words sound like footsteps, echoing dauntingly in my mind, 

Still I reach out at the darkness hoping it's you I will find. 

Yet each time I reach out all I feel is the cool ebony air, 

But I hear your side stepping footsteps so I know you're still there. 

But then your footsteps start to fade away, 

But in the ebony darkness is where I will stay, 

Because I know you'll be back.. ..sooner or later.... someday. 

Ashlie Jarosiewicz 





Just A Pawn 

"Don't you talk to me," says the one holding the knife, 
"I had nothing to do with it," squeaks the pawn full of strife. 
Yet they both stand there holding knives dripping with disdain. 
Completely aware of the one they caused so much pain. 
If you do something then don't try to lie about what you have 

Or say, "You don't need this now," you're not the only one. 
Realize you're just a pawn for the king of this all. 
And soon you'll be sacrificed, to save the king from fall. 
So go ahead and hold your knives, wave them with pride, 
Until you realize you're another pawn, just along for the ride. 

Ashlie Jarosiewicz 


nt.t.h.SluuiMWftftw 1 *- 



Lord Giovanni 

Joshua DellaZanna 





Peace of Mind 

There's a cool breeze on my face, 

Lying under the moon, 

I'll chase the stars to another place, 

And I'll he happy, 

As long as the stars don't fall from the sky, 

I'll he happy, 

Watching the Milky Way from where I lie, 

Lie here and talk to the ocean, 

I can hear a distant roar, 

And on a dark heach somewhere, 

Waves crash down upon the shore, 

Wait until sunrise, 

Stare up at the clouds, 

Make out faces I don't recognize, 

And among those clouds I may find, 

What I've always sought, 

Just a little peace of mind, 

But as long as I'm alone, 

I know I'll never find, 

Just what I'm searching for, 

A little peace of mind. 

Larry Charney 



(Ihis 3s The 'Place 

Cunl we re sitting on my bed 

drying to act lil(e we re so cool 

iDut my hands are trembling 

01 nd dm afraid to touch you 

3 don t want you to /(now 

uut you lean closer 

C/nd your hands curve over my /highs 

3 will crash and die for you 

<Qo here s my tongue-tied l(iss 

3 mean it when 3 say 3 don '/ need you 

3 just love your fingers tainted in mine 

3 just love the feel of your rib cage against mine 

3 just love the whisper of your half truths over mine 

d he afternoon sun seems heavy in your irises 

Cfnd 3 wish it would shift into starlight rig III now 

"Because 3 don 1 li/(e our secrets 

"But 3 will l(eep my mouth shut for you 

iDut 3 will /(eep my mouth open for you 

3 in just another pair of lonely eyes 
3'mjusl another pathetic best friend 

C/nd we re si /Una on my bed 

drying to act lil(e we re loo cool 

'hut my hands are trembling 

C/nd 3 in cf raid to touch you 

3 don I want you to /(now 

"hut Ihis means 3 in breaking all I he rules 

C/nd this means you mean too much to me 

3 wilt crash and die for yen 

~)am lie 



yiuteimsi/& ^Scr^ciian/ 

<Safo£Aired- s/up, t/*ee& rega/ income, 

i/ee&e sAaAina infilg/it an awAaoet'Oanze/: 

/e&sec/ c/etia/iness, cuuh/m., a/ia 'color- adorn 

c7A& c/vjA-cracA/i/iy t&xttw ofltrigAt ^tutamn morn .-.■ 

v\ tf&iresi <ScA/*a/nsri 

Vfofa k) Vk. £Ma KuM 



Suwmctliwe iKadUkm 

It'd ow£tj iw kigtt leMp&iabm, 

(mdm I get a tawaW cumiMfl) 

wkw I avidhj Eiatew to amcuito gaila* miteo <ud b$l wim. 

A biq di$&iwce J»mw huj ww«tfl£ &oh& and acteoHW. 

I |iwd peace iw toe duwwe>i aw aa il taudlteo wi^i huj Joce, 

huj hoh pu£(!iwg dice oad cowing wutowe. 

Tlte caCwiwg wuwic fcEww tousagk wc, 

Gtww huj keadpbwea douiw to my toes, 

a« huj feel awa^ea* awae* toe waned awd «awd o{ toe Jeweu otafte. 

A liawd cowed amrni huj wawl awd I hwi a diatoul Eaugk. 

I puR toe (icadjjbwea cM awd oee toe tay I cawe hete wito, 

wol a tag o| aawwci, tut ewe [on. Ike, ewlwe gea* ox Huujta ke'EC ta cue 

tool can EmI H«we toaw a aiwgfe cgcde oi oeaoww. 

"jCwtewiwg to tool agaiw?" \w aata. 

I juat dHufe and wtd, huj Iteadptaww teaawiiwg toeit pfote. w&i huj eaw 

oa Kewwg Cltfidney. atwgo c{ faactow ami Dixie cujw. 

Bwltoey Solum 


Somtl/nes l/lou 6&H, 9 t Title A Feeling 

HJe tterejustaeouple of kids 

The M£le> sliding with our blood 

And if our knd resting on Mf knee 

l/jou were the infection in »Uf vhest 

As 'iDe blurrd&loHtf 'tk h^hmif . . . 

And I em r t forget tht son^ 
As if ou tried to eo$jw into the bwkseat 

feofMf heart 
3ut ifou eould never td:ed^mt^e of/tOf bodif 

rstf&llofsM . . . 



)WW WaJjIAA W cXMsi 4&M *hA\b. *i«*4> twJL 

YtX rt^y LfrVhXlly <ifcJUl ii«vlvM 'Thy c*Yl*Avit&frd. 
\<l* ff**t<**h4* I ***>• IaU. fruJ. tJUAJl ii^. t&£ W<vuA 

-vet M~ock 



°$fm %ove 3s 

Sis the fast whispers of f% 

disappear into the sea, 

{Jheg beckon unto the night, 

{To the bright stars, 

&~o the shining moon, 

{Jo teff of a pface, 

S pface u/e'ff [mow soon, 

Uts begond the sun, 

{Begonct our dreams, 

{Begond a reafitg, 

SI pface where roffing streams, 

Wind around ancient trees, 

Sind the moon is rejected, 

{Jn the cfear waters. 
Sind puritg is protected, 
{Because it is innocence, 
Sind that is the pface, 
sphere off of our hopes, 
"fie for us to embrace, 

Snd our dreams. 

{Bfend with our reafitg, 

{fhat is the pface, 

{from which euerg ffe draws its uitafitg. 

Snd onfg there, 

Wiff gou ever find. 

{/hat mgsticaf pface, 

'Where Wo hearts can become entwined. 

Sind that secret pface, 

Ues not on a beautfuf atoff 

Or on top of the highest mountain, 

{But deep within our uerg soufs, 

{fhat is where foue is. 

l^arrg %hameg 


forbidden Mid^night 

Blood/thumpy inside/ my skull/ 
Measuring' times wCth/the> whirling/ story 
Your finger y flutter agoinyt my ternpl&y 
AndyeA/erythlng/stortyto-suchdry ofmeorving^ 

. . . except for your eyeyy that glisten/ in/ the/ 

gloom/. . . 

The/ treey become/ forlorn/ shadowy that scrape/ 

ogatnyt my flesh/ 

A nd/ the/ grosy needley into- my spine/ 

It almxjythurty 

The/ wind/ ynarly through/ the/ gutter in your 


lost and/ ha%y and/ dO^y 

Your tongue/ ttckley my throat 

Your lash&y whisper nightwiarey agaln/yt my 


A wolfs- melody torches my eary 

So- faint over your heavy breath 

The/ village/ slumhery irw a/ waiting/ irxnocence/ 
Ity candles flicker out with the/hope/ 

We/' re/ still/ home/ 
'But yow are/ my home/ 
A nd/yow are/ out here/ 
Your cheeky flash/ in the/ moonlight 
A nd/your teeth bite/ into- me/ 
And/I wantto-screcwwoutto-th&hecwen/Tm 
not sure/ ejciyty 


The/ ytary ccrdlde/ into- my aungy 

And/ sweat seep y unto- the/ hollow of my throat 

A nd/ my fingernoily scratch/ into- your yhouh- 


You/pash/ away from/ me/ 

And/ I'm/left clinging/ at the/ burning/ story 
So- far away from/ my haven/ 

Sawv hJovarino- 

Plwto to) Zetai Btymtt 


There are many stories I could tell 

Of faraway lands and those who dwell 

In field, tree, meadow or hill 

Those who got by on only their will 

And the strength of their minds 

Now there are many of these kinds 

Traipsing through our world, folk 

Logical thought tends to choke 

When applied to these creatures 

My tale holds some of these features 

A fairy tale story but only in name 

Tairies don't usually get the blame 

But, ah, many a time it is they who do wrong 

See fairies and logic- they don't get along 

Now listen closely and you shall hear 

Of a fairy, a knight and his lady dear 

A tale with twists, turns and suspense 

Would earn this yarn spinner more than a pence 

But don't feel obliged to pay for this tale 

I love the company food and this ale 

And before I begin I must first tell everyone 

Most stories aren't always laughter and fun 

Truths do emerge that can be painful to know 

And if that upsetsyou I suggest you go 

Tori, as a teller of tales you see, 

Tell every story as it was told to me 

I leave nothing out and won't change the lines 

Yet be careful-stories can often twist and bind 

Thoughts and musings oft change them around 

And now that I've warned, you could be spellbound 

I'll begin to weave my tale for you 

And will go forth until the story is through 

Now far way there was a young knight 
Newly shielded, he rode searching for fights 

His horse was strong, brave and true 
The knight unafraid though he hadn't a clue 

Of what lay ahead or what horrors he faced 

But hold, I'm telling at too fast a rate 

So together they wandered o'er field and hill 

Searching for monsters to fight and to kill 

Wanting to find something to hurt or to maim 

Tor a chance at knigh tly glory and fame 

He rode fast and far over unseen trails 

Looking knightly indeed in his bright chain mail 

And as it so happened one night as dusk fell 

He stopped to drink at a small town well 

As he sipped, he began to cough and sputter 

What was this thing that had wings a-flutter? 

He warily watched as it came near 

Trying not to showhis terror and fear 

With stammering voice he stated his name 

And boasted of fabricated killings and fame 

Ready to flee, he held fast to his stirrup 

Completely unprepared for the answering chirrup 

"A woman of flesh, a woman in stone 

Standing surrounded but still all alone 

Held by a beast with no knightly grace 

Tears stream down her pale, hopeless face 

Chivalrous, true of word and brave of deed, 

Kind and full of strength, can thou fulfill her need?" 

And in a whisper of wind the fairy was gone 

Leaving the knight to wonder alone in the dawn 

Upon his steed, he continued on his way 

Pondering all the fairy had to say 

He rode along until his horse nickered 

The knight's golden-green eyes flickered 

Lingers found his sword as he looked at the cave 

He promised himself this maiden he would save 

There was a strange smell and sound 

Grey wispy long clouds hovered around 

He dismounted his horse and entered the lair 

Noises were distorted and echoed in there 


At the cave's entrance stood our knight 

Surrounded 1 vith gold. je\ vels and fright 

But he cared not a whit for any of these things 

For he saw such a siglit as to make his heart sing 

A maiden, so fair as to mar the gold's beauty 

He gazed upon her forgetting his duty 

And for this, he almost lost his head 

Close behind him crept a living dread 

Reflected in her tears, he saw the danger 

Spinning to meet a creature, a stranger 

He had heard of many times before 

More deadlier in person than those in tales or lore 

Crimson in color, the fierce beast towered 

Snorting smoke, it bellowed and glowered 

Flame sho\ vered do\ vn as the knight drew his sword 

He never flinched as the fearsome dragon roared 

The deadly sword flashed and bounced off tough hide 

Seeking the tender flesh on the dragon's scaled side 

The brave knight grunted, again the sword sang 

Throughout the cave the battle sounds rang 

As time went on, the dragon was surprised 

The amount of conviction and hate in the eyes 

Of the foe he was fighting was hard to take 

And at this time the dragon made his fatal mistake 

With a mighty shout of triumph, and a strong heave 

The dragon's crimson head the knight did cleave 

As the beast's eyes dimmed, the knight swayed 

He fell to his knees, burned bleeding and frayed 

The maiden now free and shaking off her fears 

Ran to him his blood mixing with her tears 

As she held him in her arms, and bemoaned his fate 

So young and brave to lose his life at such an early date 

She had seen him for the first time today 

And yet her heart knew, in that special way 

That he was the one she was destined to meet 

And without him she knew she would concede defeat 

Life for her would be miserable and plain 

At this thought her tears fell like pouring rain 

This tale of young love so unblemished and true 

Brought tears to the eyes of fairy folk too 

They gathered round in the light of the moon 

And with magic began to heal every wound 

With amazed eyes the lady looked on 

As the burns disappeared and the blood was all gone 

She watched, in shock and surprise 

As her newfound knight opened his eyes 

He stood up and with a smile offered his name 

This time leaving off the boasted tales of fame 

She softly replied as she took his hand 

And our brave knight gently helped her to stand 

As they looked at each other they felt very blessed 

Blushing bright red, the knight quickly confessed 

Revealing his feelings, he hoped for the best 

Her heart beat fast within her chest 

And so she replied in a very coarse way 

People would be shocked even today 

She boldly approached, arms wrapped his frame 

She kissed him and softly whispered his name 

Standing together they both knew that now 

They would be married and solemnly vow 

That love would be theirs until their last breath 

And nothing could part them, not even death 

Eventually they married as all good couples do 

Let their love be an example to me and to you 

Know that love will always endure 

As long as this love is true and pure 

Lela Berger 
1st Place Writing 

Ptak fcy Aaltfic Jamwkz 



by; Valerie Betts 

'les like a thousand diamonds 

as endless asm 


~uch rhythm is Ufa like the ta 

ever chan#in$ yet (crever constant 

'Mysterious water, dappled with starlight and moon beams; 

heal my soul and take me away 

:e away my pain and make my scars (fade 

\ (eel this peace that is within me tonight 

as /know that/'m not alone. 

vm& wj Cora) eowweuicz 

• - - 

Ail bu Skciwi QuaifL 

jjw *$)a5 

'au. camei a 10-patvtf buck an vp/w faveamts avtS davtSfefeavs; 


,au became wii Wan of jfea, 

<jo(c awf a wcte pity VMHvitVtc^ avniAck an \Ue vc 

ecame vn 

tyaix became \ke §\i\cU&<, fav a 

^cw became mvj a.. 

/A$Mie javcsieivic^ 

Plwla (u) Watt Iwjwt 

Porn of the sw. 

We are all sub-atowically one. 

Forged in the stellar ins 

Of supernova pyres. 

Just brilliant bits of starlight 

burning bright 

Once upon a summer's night. 

Vr. Chris Tipping 

, : f 


Ati fo) Jeii £utttfu( 



Plwte (u) Watt jCng 


He said goodbye 

And yes I cried; 

You've yet to hear me lie. 

But life moves on and so did I. 

Smile again and say goodbye 

I've grown so used to wandering 
But won't deny I want you there. 
I know you've seen your share of pain 
But just to warn you; I'm still scared 

Walk outside and wear the black 
Of biting winter cold. 
This heart might be unfeeling 
But my soul has not been sold. 

Perhaps somewhere beneath the dark 
A star is shining through. 
A frozen heart, despite the pain, 
Could thaw, could let you through. 

So take my hand, 

I'll take the chance 

But please don't ask me why. 

Ask me for forever, and watch me say 


Rachel Neuhanser 


/ Gecohd to 1f[on& Thowvent 

And & : 3tkebite o$ the OArb on oiat tkigks 

As ^e lean back on oiAr palms 

To bonder at the st^rs 

That glisten like nevo tears 

And (joiA vokisper tkdt (jot/, miss me 

3iAt Tm not tk^-t £ar avoay 

I lie I knovo exactly \rfkat yoiA mean 

And 1 \s>ant to grab? your hand 

3i/.t 1 don't 

Tm too scared 

It doesn't matter 

Vjon're tired 

VjotA. te[[ me 

And I'm grateM 

for yoixr kead on my sno\Ader 

1 still need yoiA 

I confess too aoiletli/) to your dosing eyes 

3iAt yoajust siQk Mtk a dream 

And TjiASt count your breaths 

To keep mine steady 

Gam Ifiavarino 



01— nte~" 

by Woii XsgoK 


A 6oU\ 



\\A \W 

\i$ vJ^xk 

ere $ summer m me $eroe\A, * **** 

ll/u\l will ouHi\te me &e\A\MtA J&sa& 

ake^Ji, medicine in \ke j-eAkerz 

wko^<5 winW Jto&Me o\a ^nowu 

oixlm owez ik $o\m. g-Hiiwi Kiiki 

lo oAm^A ^unli^kl, Jun^'^ e?uoli^Un 

^lm$, a(| We AvV*xhe\\c ni^kl 

<\wA luwH^oion ^Wliiki 

oia fe iU^u £now. And $o, loo, 

lk# ^kill oj- winW in tti£ telh du^k, 

\\\)e$ in lk^ Iktelk 's Wk 
in fe w^Afu w?e, rudeji Kown 
J7U ikg < 9\kw mA me{\$ me worm auU 1 

briAn R. 'Lufe 


Thursday is Tuesday on rypjzat 

fl syllabus or two 

chemical formulas and way-out-there stories used to entertain and keep us awake 

do the job long enough for the red numbers to read 10:40. 

There's an echo in the halls, 

a sound bouncing off the concrete that rattles my brain. 

My friend calls it a migraine. 

I call it bad memories. 

I enter the class and sit near the door 
finding no friendly face to give me cause to take one more step. 

Shakespeare meets pop culture: 

when she refers to depression as "Kurt Cbbain-ish" my ears perk up 

and 1 smile, knowing I'm going to like this class, even if it is in the morning. 

©rittney §oban 


Peculiar Professors 

On my first day of college, I walked into the classroom expecting an ordinary 
lecture with an ordinary professor. Instead, 1 spent most of the class gaping slack-jawed 
as my crazy professor moved about the room, gesturing wildly, cracking corny jokes, 
fiddling with his glasses and shouting at his computer screen. After that first day, 1 came 
to realize that there are many ways to classify professors based on their teaching styles 
and personalities. Some of the more common types are the OCD Professors, the Techy 
Professors, and the Old School Professors. The only category that is missing is the 
Ordinary Professors, since it seems that quirks and oddities are an integral part of what it 
means to be an educator. However, as strange as they may seem, perhaps our professors' 
eccentricities do serve at least one purpose— if nothing else, they never fail to keep 
students awake during class. 

First, there are the OCD Professors. These are the obsessive-compulsive teachers 
who must have every inch of desk space perfectly organized and free from clutter. The 
chairs in their classrooms are arranged in strict, straight rows and the chalk is 
alphabetically organized according to color. All lectures are carefully planned weeks in 
advance and follow a strict outline, with main topics A, B, C, and D divided into 
subtopics and bullets. I once had a professor who literally had all class activities and 
lecture topics timed down to the last second. She wrote in a neat, cursive manuscript 
with each "t" meticulously crossed and every "i" methodically dotted. Whenever we 
turned in papers, they were diligently graded and consistently returned the next day, 
complete with points deducted for sloppy handwriting or answers that were not 
word-for-word according to the textbook. My obsessed professor also had a wardrobe 
consisting of only three drab colors, chosen because they always matched. She never 
had a single hair out of place and every outfit was perfectly coordinated, without so much 
as a wrinkle or a piece of lint in sight. Overall, OCD Professors teach in a logical, 
structured manner but their obsession with organization can be exasperating. 

The second type of professor is the Techy. Techy Professors are dependent on the 
latest electronics, computers, and gadgets for teaching their classes. My chemistry 
professor provides the perfect example. All of his tests, quizzes, grades, and 
announcements are posted online, often on obscure websites that no one can find. I doubt 
that my professor has any idea what chalk is for, much less where to find it. Instead, his 
lectures are always presented in the form of animated Power Points, displayed through an 
LCD projector onto a huge screen that lowers automatically at the front of the room. He 
quickly clicks through the notes, forcing his students to focus completely on copying 
everything at superhuman speeds, meanwhile missing whatever he is saying. During 
lectures, my hi-tech professor uses a handy red laser to point to things on the screen. 
What's best is that when he gets excited about a particularly interesting topic, he begins 
making huge, enthusiastic gestures while bored students follow the laser's crazy path all 
around the room. His notes are always printed on obnoxious, brightly colored paper, 


complete with graphics and different font styles. My professor wears huge, nerdy glasses 
that are constantly slipping down his nose, and his tie never matches his shirt. All in all, 
Techy Professors manage to keep things pretty interesting, but 1 wouldn't want to be 
there if the power ever went out. 

In contrast, the third type of professor is the Old School Professor. These are the 
grey-haired, nearly deaf professors who insist on doing even/thing the way it was done 
when they were in school, eons ago. They have no idea how to use a computer or even 
find the power button, and they still can't remember your name by finals week. One of 
my professors does everything the old-fashioned way. He spends most of his lecture 
complaining about how stupid kids are these days and telling his less-than-interested 
pupils about how hard things were when he was growing up. Mis tests are usually written 
by hand on notebook paper and copied backwards and upside down. He writes 
everything on the chalkboard, and as a result can often be seen walking around with a 
chalky handprint on his butt. On rare occasions, he breaks out the overhead projector, 
puts the notes on wrong side up, and doesn't figure out how to turn it on before the 
end of class. My archaic professor rules the classroom with an iron hand and keeps a 
ruler propped by the door for rapping the knuckles of any unruly students. All the 
textbooks in his class were printed before 1 950, and most of what he teaches is irrelevant 
in today's technological society. His glasses are about two inches thick, he smokes a 
pipe and walks with a cane, and he is missing so many teeth that it's hard to understand 
anything he says. Overall, Old School Professors may have a lot of wisdom, but it would 
probably be better suited for sharing with their grandchildren from a nursing home easy 

Of the many types of professors I've en 
countered, one thing can be said of all of 
them: they may appear normal at first, but 
don't be fooled. Their quirks may range in 
severity from occasional eyebrow tics to 
frequent emotional breakdowns, but there is 
always something a little off about the class of 
citizens we know as professors. 
Nonetheless, in spite of their oddities, our 
professors are capable of inspiring us, 
motivating us, and occasionally even teaching 
us as we prepare ourselves for life after 
college. The one thing we need to be cautious 
of is that, along with their knowledge, they 
don't pass their peculiarities on to us. 

Hillary Snavely 


Crushed Blueberries 

Cut up newspapers 

like a ruptured seven of hearts 

to decorate the room 

with memories that might never burst 

into the firefly nights 

of smoky loneliness 

bo still my breath 

she hears inside her skull 

like wounded pleas 

that shiver with manipulation 

rattled by voices of the past 

awkwardly curled by passion 

and she lots her suicidal hands win yet again 

but this time there is no one to mock her into submission 
only those same stained hands to cover her face 

Sam Navarino 



XV he#vl WHMet- 

H Lvty-one/I read/ovv\a^t- 

Y statistic/ that bald/, "They 

M ea^n/ci^of(M/Ph/.V/yOn/th/- 
E country Cy31." 

Woifrl uwipreteed/ 


Vr. Richard/ C. ZUvwier 




PLAN 476 





















"A Letter Back From Regina" 

priority2 / *f rom* : / / / *xxxplanet. surf */ /alf proximacenturi* relay *sta7* / /*towe 
via/relay *sta23*//tower/4/tychobase/*harshmistress*luna/via*relaysta49*// 
hse//*plansurfalfproxicent*7/2*vesslpliades* 1 / 1 *outthere*9/9*goldeneyed*2/3*h 
mar. 1 111 1 600hrs//noretmesexp//cde7/lines 1 33/mes/begs/higuys/ends/atlas/ 
graphic/attach961ns/6293chars/nt/inc/snd/cdel 10101 1 1 10001 101010100101 1 1 
001 101 10010001 101001 1100101 11001 1000001000101001 10100101 l//:*intra 
worldvessel/uwv*pliades*mar* 1 7*4004///mar 1 7/ 1 600hrs/4004***** 10111010110 
001 Hi Guys! 

Anne, Ally, Abraham, Arak, Betty, Brenda, Bobby, Christagaeli, Cori, Christy, 
Dave, Derek, Deidre, Eric, Eridanus, Francine, Frank, Flower, Gina, Gaia, Glenn, 
Heather, Irenaeus, Isaac, Jill, Jonas, James, John, Joe, Joanne, Kevin, Kirsten, 
Linda, Lake, Mary, Mark, Mike, Meg, Melissa, Paul, Pat, Quattro, Rick, Star, Sky, 
Steve, Tree, Veronica, Xanadu, and Zoeytrope 

I've have lived here, for going on four years. We arrived close to four years 
ago but I've only been down on the surface for about six months. For the first 
three years most of us remained in orbit around the planet while our science com- 
plement did very important atmospheric and planetary studies on the planet below, 
studying its ability to sustain human life. Our planetary geologists, exo-biologists, 
meteorologists, animal behavioralists, and physicists, were very busy then, shut- 
tling up and down to the surface with air, soil, and water samples, trying to find a 
suitable settlement site. Our surveyors found us a very nice spot halfway up on 
this mountain range, which we named the Einsteins after the 20th century theo- 
retical physicist. You can't believe how beautiful it is here! It is very early spring 
here and the buds have not yet begun to move on the plants. I took this picture 
with a very old mechanical Mamiya 35 millimeter camera, that my grandfather 
gave me for my 1 1th birthday. I was using a 50 mm lens with zoom, and the ex- 
posure was on microsend, asa 400, special high graphic planetary film, from the 
original ship stores. It was taken early, around 4:30 AM in the morning on March 
3, Four thousand and four. I was very fortunate that I could get the three moons 
into a single frame of the camera, as this kind of alignment occurs only once ev- 
ery four years here. The moon to the far left in the frame we call "Alcyone," the 
larger moon in the center we have named "Terluna" after the earth and the moon, 
and because it looks most like earth's moon, and the moon to the far right we have 
named "Hope," after our own expedition's reserved optimism, for our new settle- 
ment here. It is pretty cold here because it is early March here, and the buds on 
the trees are just about to bloom here. 

Four years ago, along with our scientists, our construction complement went 
planet-side to begin the awesome task of setting up our home here, They construct- 
ed shelters, and buildings, places to live, and work, and learn and grow, They also 
set up the planet-side transmitter, the evaporators, the domes, oxygen, and water 
distillers. As it turned out, we didn't really need a lot of it, because the atmo- 
sphere here is pretty much like the Earth's, as well as the natural resources being 
similar (We've been real lucky in this), but still our construction complement did a 
really great job! I even have my own space, and my folks have their own shelter- 


I am so excited to be on the surface, where, and when, I took this picture, I 
can run around and hide behind trees, and play hide and seek with the other kids. 
I really love it because I never really lived on a 'planet,' and as I said, it is so beau- 
tiful here, and you can 

smell the spring in the air. Four days ago was my twelfth birthday, I am so very 
happy. I've never been on the surface of a planet, all my life I have lived aboard 
our ship, the "Pliades," not that there is anything wrong with the "Pliades": she is a 
beautiful ship. It's just not the same as living on a 'surface' if you catch my drift. 

I kind of feel really happy and lucky to be on the surface, it's just really dif- 
ferent and kind of so cool. Our planet so my Uncle Theseus told me (he's a plan- 
etary geologist) is about twice the size of the earth, and has little polar and orbital 
eccentricities, I don't always understand everything that my Uncle Theseus says 
(he's been studying in his held for a long time), But it means the climate here isn't 
as harsh as on earth, and the winters don't last as long, Right now there is a cool- 
ish breeze coming off the Einstein's 

and it smells so incredibly delicious. My Uncle says that I just have 'spring fever,' 
whatever that means - I think he's got it too, If it means you're really happy, and 
in a good mood. He really seems to be in a good mood lately, even though he's re- 
ally busy analyzing samples from our new planet, He goes around whistling to him- 
self as he works. In fact my folks, and everyone here, seem to be in a good mood! 
I guess they're glad to be planet-side too! 

Us 'ship' people, that is the people of our ship's government (In a late ses- 
sion, of our congress, seven nights ago), first lobbied, and then chose the name, for 
our new planet, and it's moons, a strong constituent was lobbying for 'New Earth,' 
some wanted 'New Hope' but we all, as a government, and in a peaceful way, chose 
'Regina' (even us kids get to vote! which is cool.) So the official name is 'Regina 
Centauri'. I like the other names we chose for the moons. Among us kids we have 
a new game, in the evening we see who spots Hope first, and then we make a wish 
on her for luck, if we are awake when Hope sets, we're then allowed to tell what we 
wished for without spoiling the luck. Us kids call Hope's rising "The Wishing Time" 
and her setting "The Telling Time." 

We all here have a great hope, and enthusiasm for our mission and our fu- 
ture, and in all senses we are all indebted to you, the people of the Earth, for this 
our legacy, the ship and her stores and her instrumentations that your govern- 
ments built. 

I just wanted to thank you, for your vision into our future. And please never 
forget - It's great to be alive, and to dream and to hope. Oh yeah! And If you're 
ever in our neighborhood, be sure to drop by for a visit, or even longer, I'd love to 
have you guys come here, someday soon. Oh, yeah! and I hope you like the picture 
I'm sending 

I am sending this message, to you, my cache-siblings, by intrastartransmis- 
sion 4 and it got a clearance rating of 2, which means it goes out right after govern- 
ment and administrative procedural business transmissions. (I guess all the people 
here thought it was important). I understand this message will take something like 
4 years and 3 months to reach you, But I am sending all my best wishes to you, my 
brothers and sisters on the Earth, Good luck, God speed, to all of you, on the fair 

Love to all my cache-siblings, 




Chris Mullen 



























Dr. Richard C. Ziemer 



You Called 

You called tonight; 

A voice I thought I'd never hear again. 

You verbalized the pain 

Just as I felt my heart could mend. 

Healing comes in layers; 

It takes its time and toll. 

Pain sits in the stomach 

As denial drills a hole. 

These last two months 

Have been devoted to forgetting. 

Every breath crushing my lungs 

Has been all about regretting. 

I can't find the words 

To tell you how I feel. 

My world turned upside down so fast 

I've lost track of what is real. 

Was that really you who called? 

Who claimed you knew you'd done me wrong? 

Was that really the same voice 

I had treasured for so long? 

So don't bring me your tears; 

Don't simper, beg or crawl. 

The best way to apologize 

Would have been to never call at all. 

It takes all I have to wake each day, 

To forget that you were ever here. 

The sound of your voice across the line, 

It's just too close, too near. 

Your confession of your actions, 

Makes it harder to move on. 

Before I could be angry; 

Now somehow that just seems wrong. 

You have no idea how much 

I wanted to forgive, 

To say that these things happen; 

We could still laugh and live. 

But when I reached for just a hint of trust 

To base that action on, 

I found the well sucked bare and dry; 

What we had was gone. 

Tonight your voice tore through my soul; 

You stripped it raw and sore. 

All the healing I had done, 

Like our friendship, was no more. 

So now I lie here aching 

As if you just stormed out my door. 

I fear the dreams in sleeping; 

I can't bear it anymore. 

I didn't want apologies; 

You failed me as a friend. 

All I ask is simple; 

Please don't EVER call again. 

Rachel Neuhauser 

TvqU ty Zau^Btijaul 



The Trouble with Advice 

In my family, giving advice has never been a particular talent anyone has had. We give a lot of advice, 
but to no particular advantage. One of the last things my grandfather said to my father was, "Remember, 
paint hates an edge." My grandfather was a building contractor and this may have been fifty something 
years of collective painting wisdom. He died soon after giving this advice from a fall on a job site. Bet- 
ter advice would have been, "Remember to have someone hold the ladder." 

I don't know how much advice my father took from his father. I never saw my father paint anything 
himself. But, I never saw him get up on anything higher than a step stool. So, maybe he did learn 
something. He had parachuted out of a burning B-29 bomber in World War II, over China in the dark 
and the rain, and that hadn't killed him. I don't remember my father giving me advice from World War 

II or any other direct experience. Instead, he would repeat folk wisdom from his childhood like: "If you 
wash your hands, you'll never get sick." Of course, he died of cancer. 

My mother's advice can be a little more nuanced. She has a strong basic Christian faith with a fascination 
for astrology at the edges. So from her, you can get advice like: "Be humble, and don't fly on Wednes- 
days." When it came to advice to her sons about women, she was downright blunt. No woman could 
be good enough for her sons. She would say: "Women are like street cars; there's another one coming 
along in fifteen minutes." Not the kind of personal philosophy that encourages a guy to build deep, lasting 
relationships with the opposite sex. 

With a family history like that, I should be reluctant to give advice. I do talk to my kids about money 
and the merits of hard work and savings because I teach courses in finance and investing. I taught both 
my kids how to read the financial page at an early age. We often play a stock market game that teaches 
about stocks and bonds. I try to teach them to be smart with money, but I really try to stop there with 
the advice. However, my son's graduation from the eighth grade pushed me into the 'Dear Abby line. 

Now I don't remember having a graduation from the eighth grade in my own past. I remember gradu- 
ation from high school. Eighth grade I remember as being after seven and before nine. In other words, 
it was no big deal. At my son's middle school, it was a very big deal. There was a full formal ceremony 
with music. The whole class paraded in and took their places on the auditorium's stage. 

The boys looked extremely uncomfortable in their collared shirts and ties, their arms extending a couple of 
inches too far for their sports jackets. The young men sat on stage, slunk down in their chairs, trying to 
find something interesting in their programs or by looking backstage at objects only they could see. When 
the boys were each called up for their certificates, they got up awkwardly. They approached the front of 
the stage using a slumped, forced gate a pack mule at the Grand Canyon would recognize. Each boy in 
turn had no idea which hand to use to accept the diploma. There was no eye contact made with the prin- 
cipal. Even though the past twenty students had shaken hands with the principal, they all seemed surprised 
that she wanted to shake hands with them. 

The girls were a different story. They sat on the stage like it was the finals of a modeling competition. 
When called, they ascended from their chairs and glided across the stage to get their certificates. They 
moved in high heels like they had done this a million times. Many wore a big knowing smile and they 
made a quarter turn of the head towards the audience half way across the stage like they had just won an 
Oscar and it wasn't their first. But, their physical appearance was even more remarkable than their mo- 
tor skills. Most of them appeared to wear size zero dresses. And on many of the girls, these expensive 


dresses were cut and slit to reveal quite a lot. With all the makeup, had I not known better, I would 
have thought most of the girls were eighteen. 

And that is what got me to thinking, which, is generally trouble. I put myself in my son's place and 
thought, "What chance does he have against this?" When I was that age, any of these girls could have 
induced me to do any number of terminally stupid things. True, he was only fourteen now, but sixteen 
and an instant family could be just around the corner. (I think you can see how I can work myself into an 
agitated state without much assistance.} I decided I had to have a talk with him. I'd impart a lifetime of 
wisdom about women, which in my case would take about 30 seconds. 

I chose a time when we were alone in the car on the way to a baseball game where he was going to play 
first base. A serious talk with me, filled with dubious advice, was the last thing he wanted. I tried to 
draw him into conversation about the graduation and some of the girls in his class. He answered me as 
economically as possible, as if each word he used cost him five dollars. I finally decided to plunge into the 

heart of the matter. 

I said, "Greg, you realize that finding the right girl is not simple, 
to a relationship than good looks and physical attraction." 



onse. "There is a lot more 

He looked at me as if he finally realized what the idiot was trying to get at. "I know that, Dad. I'm not 
stupid. I don't think I'm going to get married for quite a while, but when I find the right girl she will be 
more than good-looking." 

I was hopeful. "Great. What else will you look for?" 

"Well, I want to find a girl who is intelligent." 

This was very encouraging. "Intelligent, so that you candiscuss things and go to plays and museums and 
share other things you are interested in together?" I asked. 

He thought for a couple second. 
"Well, that and if she is intelligent 
she can get a good job." 

For the last few months, I have tri 
to undo all the money themes 
that I used to talk about. I tell 
him that money isn't everything 
and that having money isn't the 
same thing as happiness. But, 
it may be too late. 

And that is the trouble with 
advice, someone might actually 
take it. So be careful to whom 
you give advice. And that is 
the best advice I can give you. 

Larry Stelmach 


Heaven Always Needs More 

Follow the red carpet 

to fame 

except this one crooks left 

into the ugly shadows 

that guard the crystal palace 

and then it ends 

a hundred feet away from the destination 

it leads to you, though 

a ruptured throat straining to sing of glory 

but they trample over you 

you're not worth it 

you 're too dangerous even when murdered 

But, she stops 

silking her hands over your tangled flesh 

pressing her pulse into your torn-up heart 

you would have saved everyone 

if only someone would have saved you 

hut you re a demon with soft eyes 

and no one wanted to chance 

your tarnished blood on their palms 

Except her 

and she s too late 

but she's allowed to run through the gates 

crying with its hinges 

Sam Navarino 


Vkofo ta| Kadtcujite HiMtud 

Falling in Love TTTzen You Are Ten 

Living off a picture, surviving on the prayer. 

That when I fail all these trials, you will still be there. 

Breathing you in and knowing that I cant be with you now. 

But listening so intently when you say someway, somehow. 

Wondering in your words, falling deeply into your ey r es, 

Crring so silently at the unfairness of our lives. 

Hoping for these long goodbyes, holding on to you forever. 

Knowing all too well the meaning of "leave you never." 

Begging you to let me sink let me lie away from it all. 

Knowing you'll be therefor me. no matter where I fall 

There's no need to test my heart. I know where I belong. 

Even when everything around us makes it seem so very wrong. 

True meanings told through letters, written in colored pen. 
Because turning to you is like falling in love when you're ten. 

Based on the musical styling of Dashboard Confessional 

Ashlie Jarosiewicz 


My "Window 

'Every time I trust, 

Every time I let it go, 

Every time I crack^open the -window, 

The window to my souL 

I keep the latched locked tightly, 
'The crystal clear vanes sealed. 
Transparent veils of lace 
Now a thicks blackfinen shield. 

%eep out the light, 

%eep out the pain, 

(Don't let a breeze pass through. 

Tresh air could Bring backjthe hurt; 

'More anguish than I ever knew. 

My window once was open. 
I would sing across the Jield 
Jind invite all to my window sill 
To hear my heart revealed. 

The trees unfurled their branches, 
The sky birds softly crooned, 
The wind ran its fingers through my hair; 
I was easy prey to wound. 

I loved the light, 

I loved the joy, 

I trusted all I saw 

The breeze played with the long sheer drapes 

Translucent as my soul. 

(hut then one day a storm blew in; 

The drapes were ripped and torn. 

The rain, 

The thunder, 

The glass pane cracked. 

That day I learned to mourn. 

My tears mv(edwith the raindrops 
Eorming puddles on the floor. 
The tattered drapes leached red 
(Because my heart could bleed no more. 

That day I closed the window; 

Locked out the birds, 

The breeze, 

The sun; 

(Barred out any situation 

'Where I thought harm could be done. 

I knew the pain, 


The hurt, 

The anger, 

(Remained outside my glassy watts 

As Cong as I kept tig fit the locks 

And ignored the wind's enticing calls. 

'Years later someone ventured hy 
And knocked upon the glass. 
My window slowly opened; 
I Leaned from the Linen mass. 

I toof^his hand, 

He tookjny heart 

And taught me how to love. 

I trusted him. 

"He seemed fit; 

A perfect, sunshine glove. 

(But sunshine only lasts 'tilldusk^ 

And then the light moves on. 

I looked up through the gloomy din; 

Jde was missing, 


This time there was no thunder, 
!JVo lightning, rain or wind. 
'My tears were silent as I re-hung 
The heavy blackjinen. 

Opening a window 

(Brings the sunshine and the rain, 

(But keep the glass panes tightly locked 

And you remain unchanged. 

I've learned to love, 

I've learned to hate, 

To hurt, 

To cry, 

To mourn. 

The thrill of a first kiss, 

The ache of a heart torn. 

I grow weary of the sorrow 
And despite the joy purposed, 
My window will remain, for now, 
Locked tightly, sealed and closed. 

(Rachel Neuhauser 


Background: It is With a myriad of emotions that one experiences When one must Write the infamous letter 
announcing plans to retire at a time of life when such a decision needs to be made knoWn. A journey that Was 
exciting, challenging, and educational. Being the bean for Agricultural and Environmental Sciences at beta- 
Ware Valley College Was a fantastic capstone for my career because Delaware Valley College Was the Alpha 
and Omega of a magnificent 4 1-year journey. I hope and pray that in some small Way I have been able to 
contribute towards serving humankind to establish an improved quality of life and to set in motion a smidgen 
of peace and co-existence on our beautiful planet that began With me. The following is an attempt to put into 
perspective a lifetime of devotion to humankind and agricultural education. 

Alpha and Omega 

The alpha and omega of a glorious occupation commenced as a Vocation and ended as a profession. 

A Vocation that provided satisfaction 
While on the Way to a profession that rewarded gratification. 

In the alpha phase there Were a myriad of emotions 

that Were deficient of self-confidence white encountering anxieties and apprehensions. 

Being the first letter of the Greek alphabet, Alpha means that What is first 

opened mysterious pages turned only by a self-determined livelihood thirst. 

When in the springtime of a marriage to a compassionate Wife, 

possessing a "reason to be" Was a Way of life. 

Surrounding one's inner soul and outer self 

With Wise scholars pointing paths of life Was esteemed more than a hoard of Wealth. 

In the omega phase there Was an immeasurable degree of passions 

that reflected memories, achievements, failures, jubilations and depressions. 

Being the last letter of the Greek alphabet, Omega means that What is last 

closes those mysterious pages of a profession to count the blessings of the past. 

While in the autumn of an exclusive livelihood chronicle, 

possessing a "reason to be" continues to persevere and is stilt essential. 

'Tis time to become scholarly and Wise to point the Way 

for those who too are commencing their journey. 

Memories are life's most precious treasures as seen in the mind's eye 

for they become more precious as time goes by. 

May the saga of a lifetime journey 

be alive in chronicles embracing the treasures of a lifetime bounty. 

by James E. Diamond, Ph.D. November 2007 


The Gleaner 

High School Writing 

The English Department 
is very happy to have sponsored its eleventh 

high school writing competition, 

which was designed to showcase the work 

of young writers in the area. 


From Pointe to Paper 

As a young ballerina I wore a tutu, 
Practiced my plies, 

And wound the silk ribbons of my pale pink 
pointe shoes 

I was one of those little girls in the Nutcracker ballet, 
admiring the prima ballerina as she rehearsed, 

her elegance, 

her ownership of the stage. 

Like many young girls, I eventually hung up my pointe shoes 
and after nine years of dancing 
I picked up a pen. 

It was awkward — at first — trying to steady the words as they 
glided across the paper. 

As if trying to manage an ambitious pirouette spiraling out 
of control. 

And when I had once looked into a practice mirror to find 
fault in my footwork, I now study reflections of my soul. 
And I have gained a better grip — on the pen 

and my words 

and now I have 
my own stage. 

On paper, I am the prima ballerina. 

My writing dances across the page and when I write that 
perfect sentence — the one that makes me smile — that's the 
grand arabesque center stage. 

And when I think about that prima ballerina who I, along 
with many other little girls, so admired, I realize that 
I've found my own elegance — eloquence 

And my own stage — a blank sheet. 

Laura Foti 

Downingtown West High School 

Grade 12 

Mrs. Robinson 


From Endymion 

Every twilight, I'd watch you dutifully ascend onto the trail 

your brother blazed that morning, your chariot 

more luminous than the constellations, your skin 

more fair than Aphrodite. You consumed each 

evening with your singular ethereal light 

as you trudged on, a ghostly goddess, in silence, 

except for the light clip of your stallions' hooves, 

a solitary canter echoing across the expanse of midnight. 

Did you keep a cold grey eye on Mount Olympus, 
peering on the nightly games and debauched merriment, 
the divine cheeks flushed from red wine and the hearths fire? 
Probably. But the pleasures of the Olympians weren't meant for you. 

Instead, your gaze illuminated tiny, earthly scenes 

of mortal romance, of the lovers who thought they were hidden 

in the shadows. Their tangled bodies might 

have distracted you from the barren horizon. Their laughter 

might have drawn your attention off your heavenly path. 

Zeus, being a compassionate god, understood 

your desires. Though unlike your sister, you weren't impulsive 

enough to want an immortal companion. After waxing 

and waning for centuries in solitude, you only wanted 

an immortal body. How could I, a mere human, deny you happiness? 

Yet sometimes, during lunar festivals, I hear the poets' 
songs of our enchanted love, resound up through the canyon 
to my sanctioned prison. Perhaps I stir. Perhaps you smile. 
And I wonder, between my dreams, 
if our children's faces appear beautiful 
in the moonlight. 

Lindsay DeMaria 

Central Bucks East High School 

Grade 12 

Mr. Trachtenberg 



J\fewe& 64<M&in>a/ f Jxeitefrta/MtiMO' 
#/ isivrnSdefr cwt/wti/itl heace£iiMw, 

<Mfr£te& ad/ a 64/ul 
iMfr ll d<xla&b a/ blt&aJp oS upfi/it&. 

36 COM/tinueA' CM/ 

JVew&t/ bdotiw&ia/j JVew&i latmiita/. 

&fa&n/, liJw -a/ wioMi&i lamina aw &&&, 

iM/ AwwtHs 64asc/v oSieot * £a(4& £ic<m/ i>tb &e4<lw. 

&h& cvtu/ Se^teaih/ il i&ac<rie- 
iyhoiiMirwlfr cS lived* de&ttowetl. 

tM/clotul o£ a&ii/ tu&hefr uJi/ in/tc< tfae< aJpu. 

^eMMw SunJidMa li€wne<i&a/ia^ 

Gaae^t/ 1& l&ll itfr c<wn/ia<:le& 

fjd&Mit- itb lale&l e&caAtidefr. 

£/{ewin/ TzteUa/ 


Summer -in - 3&t/i/U&c4i$ Jt/ia/ine^ 

Riding shotgun in your Honda Civic 

on the road to the Village Tie-up to buy sparklers, 

I listen to you tell me about your obsession with cars, 

how sometimes when you're mad 

you find an open stretch of road and go 

ninety, a hundred even, and everything rolls off. 

I nod and don't believe it until 

you drive back down the hill one night, 

and I can just tell. Take me with you, 

I ask, terrified that you might actually say yes, 

wondering in a split second what it would feel like 

for everything to roll off, what my mother would say if she knew- 

relieved when you twist your lips and shake your head: 

It's too dangerous. 

I might have been offended, once. 

Instead, you drive me slowly up the hill, 

shifting gears with the smooth swiveling motions I love, 

and we sit in the parking lot listening to Toto 

until we can't stand it. Then we walk to the soccer field, 

light the sparklers with your lucky lighter. 

I write my name in the air with my first one, 
then I write yours, then my sisters, then everyone's 
name I know in big loopy cursive that burns 
its trail into my retinas. I wave my last 
sparkler furiously, close my eyes when it's done, 
see the ghost of it on my eyelids, 
the closest to fireworks I can get. 

Cara Liuzzi 

Abington Friends School 

Grade 12 

Ms. Mary Lynn Ellis 


Tainted 'Lion 

There are a few of us who are lucky enough to remember a certain something that 
forever formed us, changing our view of the world through blurred eyes of conventional 

For me, that change came on the back of a weightless dandelion seed, scattered 
across the vast expanse of my mother's yard. I vividly remember the day my hungry 'lions 
were lost along with childhood innocence. 

It was fifty years ago, a summer day like any other — the cicadas noisily bickered in 
the background while I reclined on the grass, overgrown from neglect. I carefully plucked 
a fat, brilliant, golden dandelion as the earth dozed on, unaware of its loss, in the summer 
heat. I held it in my small hands, admiring its beauty, pressing it between two fingers to 
coax out the cool juices that seeped from its radiant mane. And I continued this methodi- 
cal activity for hours upon end — it was peaceful, innocent. Of course, my intent was not to 
kill the 'lions (which often resulted from my escapades) but my childhood innocence did 
not, could not, differentiate between cruel and just plain curious. 

As the summer went on, and despite my daily attacks, the once small patch of dan- 
delions would eventually take over, like the assault on Normandy, popping out of every 
crack in the sidewalk, space between bricks, and fissure in the hot asphalt — it was a beauti- 
ful, perfectly executed occupation. I only needed Julie Andrews and the little Von Trapp 
children to change my otherwise plain front lawn into an Austrian field of paradise. But 
everything changed the day the gardener came. 

Examining the immaculate, pristine lawns of our neighbors, mother decided that 
it was time to hire a gardener to keep the overgrowth from consuming our small town- 
house. As I was lounging around with the 'lions one afternoon a tall man, with blonde- 
hair speckled with traces of gray and blue eyes clear as marbles, parked a dirty red truck 
in our driveway. He proceeded to walk up and knock on our front door in a stiff, almost 
rigor mortis march, nodding at me in a polite manner often considered odd to a child. His 
name was Mr. Braun and I remember being quite perplexed by the strange spelling on 
the side of the red truck. To me, BRAUN should have been BROWN — the color of dirt 
and chocolate. Nevertheless, mother informed me that he would be coming once a week 
to mow the grass and tidy the beds filled with decay, warning, "Jeanette-don't-get-in-the- 
way-of-Mr. Braun and try-and-be-a-good-little-girl-and-stay-out-of-the-dirt." 

About a week later, while I was outside examining "my" crop of dandelions, I heard 
the coughing of an engine as the bright red truck clunked into view and plopped into park, 
hugging the lopsided curb. Mr. Braun appeared at the bed of the truck, slipped a handker- 
chief to cover his mouth and offered a greeting with an accent broken and fractured with 
German heritage. He removed from the truck a large, awkward object that he slung over 
his shoulder, its blades rotating from the lazy, humid breeze. He reached down, pulled a 
long cord from its center, and the beast sprang to life like a giant tank, mowing down ev- 


erything in its path. I jumped up and hid behind the hedges that lined one side of our 
yard, a makeshift trench which would shelter me from the battlefield. The noise — that 
motor sound — reverberated inside of my eardrums and I covered my ears to numb the 
noise — the reality of the war that was being waged on my front lawn. 

The noises of battle eventually died, fading into the distance with the sound of 
the rumbling motor of the red truck, and I came out of hiding to examine the damage. 
Scattered across the yard were the yellow and green remains of my field of dandelions: 
not one exquisite flower remained. I ran about frantically, trying to pick up the bro- 
ken pieces with my tiny hands. My mother, noticing the disarray of the chaotic front, 
rushed out through the door. 

"What's wrong?" she stammered, examining my body for a wound. 

"The-the-dandy- lions," I choked, sniffling as the smell of the freshly cut lawn 
seized my senses, a reminder of the destruction. "They're all, they're all dead — they 
were so beautiful. " 

"Darling, dandelions aren't beautiful flowers, they're ugly weeds" my mother said, 
forever tainting my fascination in an almost scolding tone. I struggled from her grasp 
and sat in the mound of debris, rocking back and forth among the casualties until the 
green of the remnants soaked into my faded jeans. I balled up my fists, clutching the 
torn pieces of 'lion mane — I wanted to hit Mr. Braun, to force him to see the beauty in 
what he had destroyed for a little girl, an admirer of a simple flower — or whatever it was 
for that matter. 

The dandelions eventually grew back, only to be cut away again. But they lost 
their sense of beauty; the sense of wonder that had once enshrouded their presence 
seemed to dissipate with the rays of sun as the morning of my life passed into after- 
noon. And now, as I look out my window, I see that the sun begins to set. The children 

the street play in the front yard, picking blades of grass and other trivial idols to which 
children cling and, with it, their childhood innocence that, once severed, can only once 
again blossom through the eyes of our youth. 

Now, as age creeps up my tired body like a vine, I'm too old to fuss over the opin- 
ions of others. And I finally have that coveted garden filled with dandelions — not but- 
tercups or clovers, pansies or even juniper — they're too "pedestrian" for my taste. 

Laura Foti 

Downingtown West High School 

Grade 12 

Mrs. Nancy Robinson 



I opened my eyes for the first time in a while, taking in the glorious fall sky. The sight of it was 
dramatic and soothing at the same time; from the golden blood of a dying sun to the clouds of gray 
gauze it seeped into, I found it almost impossible to look away. 


But even in the muted light and the irresistible natural splendor around me, there was some- 
thing even more captivating that called to me. It was the sound of his guitar, a bright tinkling of fall- 
ing water that stole my will with a thousand times the intensity of the sweetest Siren's song. Slowly I 
surrendered, my eyes greedily confirming the likeness between the sight before me and the one I had 
fabricated in my mind. He was still sitting cross-legged, his slender arms cradling an old acoustic; an 
animated portrait of true ease. I propped myself up to get a better look at his face and couldn't help 
but smile when I found it deep in concentration. 

For a moment I only watched and listened, mesmerized by a simple melody that was familiar 
and foreign at the same time. After a moment he stole a glance to see if I was still watching, only to 
quickly look back at the fret board to recover a missed note. 

"Since when do you play?" I asked, my smile growing wider. 

He took a moment before responding, filling the silence with a bittersweet symphony. "Since 
you wanted me to." His smile lit up his face for an instant before it was hardened in concentration 
once more. 

I frowned. "I don't remember that. As if you need to find another way to upstage me." My tone 
resumed being playful, but my thoughts remained serious. Although his playing was far from perfect, 
having him pick up an instrument was not something I had asked for. 

"You wanted me to become more... genuine," he said softly. "I knew this would be real to you." 
He let a final chord ring out, his attention abandoning the weathered instrument and centering on me. 

My lips tightened into a straight line. "I don't want to talk about this when I'm here," I sighed, 
laying back in the grass again. "Let me dwell on this when I'm alone. For now, let's just..." 

"Exist?" He finished, his voice heavy with intimation. A moment passed while we listened to 
the wind in the nearby trees and searched for words when nothing was meant to be said. 

I let out a breath I had been holding and looked back at him. His eyes burned into mine, try- 
ing to show how much it hurt to remind me. In a desperate attempt to keep my mind busy, I heaved 
myself upright and pulled the silent guitar into my own lap. My fingers pulled awkwardly at the strings 
until they recognized the familiar pattern and prompted the shining wires to keep up, singing a soft, 
tranquil tune. To my absolute delight, I could feel him watching me play with the same engrossment 
that I had shown only moments ago. 


"You really should play more," he said softly, shifting his weight so slightly that I almost 
didn't notice. I looked up at him through my eyelashes for a second. 

"I should be doing a lot of things right now," I began when the music slowed. "You know how 
crazy it is. Schoolwork, my jobs, those art projects..." My list could go on. "This, however- this is 
not one of them." 

I hardly noticed that I had stopped playing. 

Somehow I wanted that to hurt him; I wanted for him to say no, he needed me or that this 
was all that really mattered. 

But he just stared intensely back at me with stony sincerity and eyes that burned like dying 
suns. I couldn't help but feel like I was looking into a mirror- a mirror that had somehow gotten 
very, very close to my face. 

My heart lurched when I understood: there would be no protest; he would not fight. This 
was a decision he would have me make alone. I wanted to cry out in agony, for the sole factor of 
my heartbreak would not be enough to abandon my common sense. But a word, one single word of 
encouragement from him would set my will in stone on the other side. 

Knowing that, he remained silent. 

For a moment, out of pure desperation, I held my breath to see if he would fold. Maybe at the 
last minute he would cry out the words that I so severely needed to hear. But after a moment of the 
coldest silence I could imagine we both knew the decision I would be walking away with. 

I swallowed hard and lowered my eyes from his face, terrified by my sudden urge to lose my 
grasp on the emotional stability I had taken years to cultivate. Time raced against me with a mock- 
ing grin as I stood up quickly; I couldn't allow myself enough time to change my mind. 

I ached to leave him with some kind of a parting gesture, but I only yanked the guitar off of 
the ground by the neck and let my footsteps take me away. 

Perhaps I turned back to look at the field once I had reached its end, just where the grass 
sprouted through the frayed edge of the ribbon of road. It's possible that my eyes scanned the golden 
horizon for a moment longer than absolutely necessary, making sure of my decision. 

But I'm sure I would have seen nothing more than I expected to see: a lonely wind combing 
through an empty, dying field. 

Allison Stella 

Hamburg Area High School 

Grade 12 

Mrs. Terri Jones 


The Yellow Tennis Ball 

It all started with a yellow tennis ball. 

I was six and he was seven when the offending neon sphere was lobbed with admirable strength 
at my left eye. 

I considered it a token of friendship. He was merely wary of my cooties. 

But regardless of the true intentions behind his unwarranted attack, the incident served as a 
stepping-stone to what would become a long and unusual camaraderie. 

As a member of the elementary school set, I was an anomaly. With two left feet and a curse of 
gross motor skills that were useless for much more than tripping over myself, I was rendered a bonafide 
klutz in a neighborhood full of shining young athletes. I shied away from the casual games of hockey 
they played on the street, choosing instead to watch morosely from the big bay window of my living 
room. But all of this changed in an instant (as things in childhood often do) when the neighbors across 
the street took me under their wing. 

Meredith was the oldest. At three years ahead of my own puny self, she was a glimmering bea- 
con of maturity. An idol. I envied her closet full of stylish ensembles. 

Matt was the youngest, but only six months younger than me. For someone of such a small age, 
he possessed quite a large character. In one facet, he was the comedian — always able to send us into 
hysterics. In another, he was the baby of the family — a sore loser, though this was a foible he eventually 
grew out of. 

Smack dab in the middle was Doug — the pitcher who'd given me my one and only shiner. He 
was a stranger first, then a classmate, and finally — a friend. 

With the help of my newfound mentors, I was slowly eased into the neighborhood games that 
were constantly occurring at one place or another. They outfitted me properly from the wealth of sports 
paraphernalia they kept in their garage, (I'm confident that if one were to spelunk through its cavern- 
ous depths, they'd discover athletic equipment for every activity from baseball to rugby), and sent me 
out into the battlefield that was backyard soccer. As predicted, I was a fumbling, bumbling, stumbling 
accident-waiting-to-happen. But they accepted me despite these flaws. Or maybe even because of 

Now don't get me wrong — while I had somehow managed to squeeze myself into the tight- 
knight society of children that existed in the neighborhood, Doug, Matt, and Mere had not suddenly 
inspired me to wax lyrical on the subject of all things kinesthetic. I still preferred a relaxing afternoon 
spent reading to swinging helplessly at a whizzing whiffle ball. What their efforts did instill in me was 
a new sort of self-confidence that I'd never known — the confidence to play knockout on their long, 
sloping driveway even if I knew I'd be the first one disqualified, the confidence to engage in the elabo- 
rate fames of survivor we conducted even if I was always voted off the island, the confidence to interact 
with people whose sphere of interests and abilities differed so drastically from mine. 

Admittedly, the friendships we forged back then did not weather the years entirely intact. Mere 
went off the college, Matt's in the grade below mine, and Doug and I eventually drifted apart. Perhaps 
it's true the only contact I have with them now is the isolated visit, the rare phone-call update between 
parents, a few casual words shared in math class. Even so, the lessons that they taught me continue to 
ring true — that friendship defies all laws of logic, the status quo, and even things you thought you knew 
about yourself. That the barriers between people are inconsequential — mere inconveniences. 

That sometimes all it takes to bridge these gaps is a yellow tennis ball. 

Jessica Bergman 
Pennridge High School 
Grade 10 
Mrs. Kosa 


The Accidental Invalid 

One thing eight-year-old Ernest Hartley hated was going to school. It stifled his young, adventurous spirit to 
be in a classroom all day, learning multiplication tables instead of pouring salt on snails. But there was no escape, so 
he surrendered to the inevitable. 

Until one day, when his friend Bobby Rathbone was absent. . . 

"Where's Bobby?" Ernest asked his teacher, Ms. Savage. Her last name almost made up for being boring. 

"Bobby has the flu," said Ms. Savage. 

"Hmmm..." thought Ernest, "the flu..." 

Later that day in social studies, Ernest flipped ahead in Wonders of Modem Geography to ski accidents and 
the danger of avalanches. Why, workers on the Panama Canal suffered from malaria, typhus, and other things he 
couldn't even pronounce. He read on into math class, hiding the social studies book behind his math book. 

"Can anyone tell me where to carry the two-" 

"Ms. Savage!" Ernest yelled. 

She frowned. "What, Ernest?" 

"If I got dysentery, would I have to go to school?" 

"You won't get dysentery, silly." She forced a smile. Ernest grinned back and looked down. 

"Hey, honey, how was school?" asked Ernest's mother as he burst through the front door. 

"Satisfactory. Very satisfactory," Ernest replied. 

Hopping on his scooter, he raced to the Rathbones' house and knocked. 

A stern lady appeared at the door and looked down. "Yes, Ernest?" 

"Is Bobby home?" he asked. 

"Robert is not available at the moment," and with that she shut the door. 

"Oh, poop!" he thought and ran around the house to the back window. "Dragonball-Z." played on a large TV. 
Ernest watched for awhile and then tapped on the window. 

"Eeek!" screamed Bobby and a ban-age of used tissues soared upwards. Bobby stared out the window in 
wide-eyed terror. "Oh, it's you." Bobby opened the window. Ernest was laughing. "I freaked you out! Hahaha!" 

"Shut up, Ernest. Why are you bothering me when I'm sick?" 

"You do sound funny," Ernest said, "but you got to skip school! I'm so jealous!" 

Bobby smiled. "Yeah, I've just been watching TV and drinking coke and sleeping all day. It's awesome." 

"But how did you do it?" asked Ernest. 

"Oh, it's easy. I just threw up and said everything hurt. Oh, and another thing — see this doohickey?" 

"That is a thermometer," said Ernest with precision. 

"Yeah. It measures your temperature and if it's high enough, you don't have to go to school." 

"Wow!" exclaimed Ernest. "Ok, gotta go. Get well soon!" 

"God forbid," muttered Bobby. 

When Ernest got back home, his mother told him to take out the garbage. "Oh I dunno, I think I have a touch 
of the gout..." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Oh, you know — there've been harsh easterlies, and there's only so much stress my aging joints can take." 

"Ernest Ronald Hartley! That is bull-hunkey, and you know it! Take out the trash!" 

The next day, Ernest sat patiently through the first four classes; then came lunch. He bought a peanut butter 
and jelly sandwich and three extra-chocolate-nougat, king-sized candy bars. He had planned to get sick at recess, but 
strange things started to happen to him soon after he had eaten. His tongue seemed swollen, and he vomited profusely 
in the cafeteria, until the teacher handed him a trash bag and dragged him to the nurse's office. 

The nurse sat Ernest on a chair with his plastic trash bag and asked, "What did you eat?" 

"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich and..." 



"Nothing, just a pbj," said Ernest astutely. 

"Hmm... really..." The nurse squinted. "Why is your face all red? Wait, let's have a look at your tongue. Say 



"Well, I think you're allergic to peanut butter. Have you ever felt like this before?" asked the nurse, but Ernest 
just made a choking noise. The nurse swore. 

"Lie on your back!" 

"Ack," Ernest complied. He felt his breath come easier that way. The nurse took an epinephrine pen and 
jabbed Ernest in the leg. "Whoah Nelly!" Ernest let out a muffled noise of surprise and leaned over. The nurse shoved 
him back down. 

"Stay on your back!" she shouted and opened her cell phone. "Children's Hospital? This is Maddy Brown- 
ing, nurse at Strawberryfleld Elementary School. One of the students ingested peanut butter and is suffering an aller- 
gic reaction — obstruction of windpipe, swelling — yes, I administered epinephrine — just a minute ago — please get an 
ambulance here A.S.A.P. Thank you." 

"Are you better, Ernest?" 

"Yeth," Ernest gasped. 

"Good. Now I'm going to call your mom." 

"Hi, Mrs. Hartley? This is the nurse at Ernest's school. He's having an allergic reaction to peanut butter, and 
he's going to the Strawberryfleld Children's Hospital — yes, he'll be fine — meet him there, ok? Oh, here he is — " The 
nurse handed Ernest the phone. 

"Hi, Mom. I'm feeling better. Yes, I know I'm your little pumpkin — ok, bye." 

A group of students were staring at Ernest in the ambulance. "Hey, what's going on? You get to ride an ambu- 
lance? Not fair!" 

Ernest blew them a kiss. "Sayonara, you poor oppressed suckers!" 

"Hi, I'm Dana. I'm a paramedic. What's your name?" 


"How are you feeling?" 


"Is your mouth swollen?" 

"A little bit." 

"You'll feel better. We'll give you some anti-allergens at the hospital." 

"When will I be done?" Ernest asked. 

"Oh, two or three hours." 

"What a pity," thought Ernest. "77/ have to miss school..." The ambulance pulled into the emergency room. 
Ernest received another shot of epinephrine and some Benadryl and then was hooked up to an oxygen mask. He liked 
the Darth Vader noises he could make, and was still wearing it when his mother arrived. 

"Oh, honey, are you all right?" 

"He's fine, Mrs. Hartley. We can take that thing off," said the doctor. 

On the way home from the hospital, Mrs. Hartley leaned over the back seat with her eyes still on the road. 
"Well, all's well that ends well, right?" 

But Ernest was sound asleep, dreaming of allergies, diseases — and future plans. 

Sam Anthony 

The American Academy 

Grade 9 

Dr. Sharon Traver 


ig the academic year by 

Delaware Valley Colle'ge students, 
'he Gleaner is a student publication and the 
opinions^^Dressed withiruare notjnar" 

lagiarism unknowingly occurring withj 

»r r